‘Not about physical strength, but spiritual endurance’: A sense of history at the World Nomad Games

There is much to appreciate in the peaceful nature of the port of Gemlik in western Turkey, especially after some time taking in the myriad sights and sounds of the World Nomad Games about 40 miles further east on the banks of Lake Iznik.

The Nomad Games have been held every two years since 2014 (with a break in 2020 due to Covid-19), based around traditional sports practiced across Central Asia and celebrating the culture of Turkic populations. What makes them special? Sultan Raev, a Kyrgyz author and secretary general of TURKSOY, a cultural organisation uniting countries with Turkic populations, describes them pithily: “They are not about physical strength. They are about spiritual endurance.”

The previous day, Arslan Koichiev from the Organisation of Turkic States had been my company heading to the Games. We drove for two hours through the Turkish countryside, row upon row of olive shrubs rolling upwards into the hills. As we headed up the track leading up to the Games you could sense the hum of anticipation building, with the sound of drums in the distance reverberating against the car.

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Stepping out of the vehicle I was hit by a mix of scents, earthy and musky and sweet all at once and then a splash of colour. The pinks, greens and oranges of the yurts were beautiful, reflecting ancestral patterns.

The Games are thunderous, uniting travellers over four days of cultural festivities. They were founded in 2014 by Askhat Akibaev, who wanted to create an event that told the hidden story of the Kyrgyz. The idea grew to encompass a wider range of peoples, reimagined as a global celebration akin to the Olympics. They were held in their birthplace of Kyrgyzstan for the first three iterations and resumed last week in Turkey. In 2024, they will move to Kazakhstan.

A new host country means a new Nomad Games: the experiences offered in Iznik were different to those in those in Kyrgyzstan's Cholpon-Ata. Here, the Games are more sprawling, although not without a sense of community.

Children laughed as they chased each other round Kyrgyz yurts while their parents and grandparents shared stories (and cigarettes) over a glass of kumis, fermented mare’s milk not dissimilar to kefir. Uzbeks and Kazakhs gathered around woodcraft workshops to learn from each other’s skills.

The easiest way to navigate the Nomad Games is not with the eyes, but with the ears; so we followed the sound of the Sybyzgy – a sideblown flute traditionally played by shepherds and horse herders, made from apricot wood or the wood of mountain bushes – and ended up at the Shalwar wrestling. a type of freestyle combat with roots in Turkey. Elsewhere, archers on horseback shot their arrows in the throes of a gallop, their tightly braided hair flying.

But it is clear to me the main event was Kok Boru or “blue wolf” in the Kyrgyz language. This is how it works: two teams of 12 jockeys race to grab a goat carcass and hurl it into the opponent’s goal. Players reach down one arm to grab the caprine cadaver while riding their horses at breakneck speed. Opponents try to block one another’s trajectory and steal the prize from those nimble enough to claim it. If a jockey gets hold of the goat, they lodge it under their leg and press tightly against the stallion’s flank while springing ahead. Variants of the game are played across Central Asia.

Kok Boru looks dangerous to me but also magical to behold. The first jockey to reach the carcass, presumably the fastest, often struggles to pick it up despite the lack of opposition. The most talented players seem to wait for the chaos to accumulate before trying to slip in and snatch the prize before speeding off.

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Observing different teams play in quick succession, I realise there is a technique – I may even dare to stretch to an art – to taking control of the carcass as it passes through the bustle of an equine scrum. Sometimes the steal isn't so neat and a standoff ensues between two jockeys, desperate to claim the prize as their own. As they hold the carcass from both ends and try to race in opposite directions it is quite the visual.

Wanting to get a sense of the dynamics between teams, I asked Mr Koichiev which is the fiercest rivalry. “Kyrgyz and Kazaks,” he says as the gold and cerulean hues of the Kazak flag flies past, brandished by a cavalier. “The Kok Buru final is always between them.”

Gulnara Kasambetova, a presenter for BBC News Kyrgyz, is an expert on the subject. “Mares are traditionally not allowed to compete in Kok Boru,” she explains, “because their maternal instinct precludes them from going in for the kill.” She says highly specialised Kok Boru stallions are some of the most sought-after horses in the world, fetching up to half a million dollars when they come up for sale.

It's easy to see why: they are towering, magnificent creatures. Their riders wear toortsog, a traditional hat made of velvets and patterned cottons reminiscent of those in the weaves of the yurts, which they lift only at the end of the game to bow their heads at the crowd. The horses lower their own heads in unison.

“When a Kyrgyz and his horse play Kok Boru, they become a centaur,” Ms Kasambetova says. Primo Levi once wrote that man is a centaur, “a tangle of flesh and mind, divine inspiration and dust.” From its early days in Greek mythology, the centaur has symbolised the merging of the physical and the spiritual, denoting human and equine natures. Mr Raev seemed to know this when he spoke of spiritual endurance: the nomad and the horse may be of two bodies, but of one spirit.

I have been too afraid to ride a horse since a stallion threw me off his back on holiday aged nine. A keen rider up until that point, I have been fearful around horses ever since. But seeing the communion between nomads and their equine friends as they brought to life one of the world’s most exhilarating sports, I felt it might be time to try again.